


Loser

by Sophia_Bee



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-04
Updated: 2014-10-04
Packaged: 2018-02-19 17:57:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2397551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan has lost too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Loser

He never hates himself more than when her legs are spread wide and she’s moaning his name in his ear. Her tongue burns down the side of his neck. His soul is held together by scar tissue.

Sometimes he dreams that the door flies open and H. Richard is standing on the other side, staring into the room with a cool, calculating gaze. His eyes skim over Logan’s naked body. They caress Kendall with a strange tenderness, lingering on her chest, on her breasts, on her glossy lips open just enough to reveal her perfectly white teeth. He looks at her like she’s another mythological luxury hotel with clean, shining rooms and an ocean view for every guest. She’s gasping Logan’s name, head thrown back, nails raking into his back, not realizing that her husband is staring at her as she comes.

Then he sees the gun.

He always hears the crack, a sharp and bitter sound that echoes in the stillness of his dream. He always feels the warmth of blood on his skin. He reaches up and his fingers are hot and sticky. Then he wakes up. He never dies. He always wishes he had.

The house is quiet.

For a long time he thought he could hear echoes of laughter. His mother was lurking around every corner, sitting on the couch, her legs crossed, smiling as she sipped gin and tonic from a highball. Whispering in his ear that she’d make it all up to him, that a new car or a new surfboard or something expensive would help take the pain of the belt away.

Then one day the laughter was gone and Logan woke up with tears on his cheeks. It was the day after Veronica told him it was over.

Veronica.

Sometimes he dreams that the door flies open and she’s standing on the step, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. Her face is a mask of pain, eyes rimmed with red. There are tears on her cheeks and Logan reaches out to touch them, to feel the wetness on his fingertips. He thinks if he can feel the wetness it will be real. He’ll close the distance between them, take her in his arms, bury his face in her hair.

Veronica.

She always disappears, slowly fading until her image is blown away with a strong gust of wind and Aaron is standing in her place, laughing. Laughing that his son has become such a fool. He wakes up with her name on his lips, staring into the darkness, shaking, gripped by fear so strong that he’s paralyzed.

He only feels better when he hurts someone else.

He goes out when the town is covered with grey shadows and the streetlights are blinking down the main drag. He drives down the hill, away from the mansions and swimming pools. He passes the bedrooms of little girls who dream of being princesses, who spend their weekends riding horses and learning tennis at the country club. Their carefully coiffed mothers eye their tennis instructor with a hungry swipe of a tongue across highly glossed lips. He slips past the dark windows of downtown businesses run by men who are earnestly grasping for the American dream by selling pizza and cheap trinkets to the masses, who work long hours and get home in time to tuck their children in bed, go to sleep and wake up in the morning to do it all over again. He crosses over the tracks, slips quietly past houses with brown lawns and crumbling stairways, run down cars are parked next to the curbs, their paint jobs fading and vinyl seats cracking. Then he stops in front of one and picks up one of the cans of spray paint he tossed in the front seat of his car after a trip to the hardware store the previous week. The can is cold in his hand. It feels good. Too good.

He drops it and it hits the floor with a soft clunk. Logan’s foot presses down on the gas pedal and he drifts past the dilapidated house, over the railroad tracks, past the pizza parlor, past the princesses tucked sweetly under pink comforters and canopies. He puts his key in the door of the looming, empty house. His footsteps echo in the foyer.

He screams. His fist leaves an impression in the drywall.

_You’re trying to kill yourself._

Shut the fuck up, he tells Veronica, whose voice won’t get out of his head.

_I won’t be part of it._

Fuck you. You’re all of it. You made me.

He knows it’s a lie but he likes the lie. It keeps him from having to look at what he’s become, which isn’t much worse than what he’d always been.

Except for one brief moment.

He loved Veronica. He only admits that when it’s quiet and dark outside. He lies in his bed and listens to the occasional sound of a car drive by and misses her. Loving her made Logan feel like he could be a different person, like there was some hope in his hopelessly fucked up life.

She ripped that away from him.

He likes Kendall. She’s fun. She’s sexy. She’s a hell of a lay. He likes fucking her, feeling the friction against his dick as he sinks deep inside her, the sharp nip of her teeth on the skin of his shoulder. He likes that she’ll let him fuck her anywhere and almost any time. At the hotel, her bedroom, the pool, almost in the bathroom during the school fundraiser. He couldn’t do it, played scared, lied about being caught. Smiled slyly and asked her if she could forgiver herself if she cost him admission to Princeton. She kissed him, tongue invading his mouth as he hands grabbed his ass and pulled him roughly against her. Another time, she hissed in his mouth.

He drinks sitting next to the pool wrapped in a terrycloth robe his mother brought back from Turkey. It smells like Veronica. He remembers one day during the trial when she wrapped her arms around him, stroked his hair and whispered in his ear that everything would be okay. He remembers how he cried. She stayed that night, curled against him, her breath hot against his skin, his hand softly stroking her shoulder. He was afraid to sleep; afraid if he closed his eyes she’d be gone, like everyone else in his life. In the morning they sat in silence eating sweet Mexican pastries left by the housekeeper. Veronica gulped down milk, water beading on the outside of the glass. The muscles in her throat moved with each swallow. He remembered how she laughed, how the sunlight sparkled in her hair. She was wearing his robe. Everything felt right.

A week later the community pool caught on fire. A week after that she broke up with him.

Logan never washed the robe. It’s dirty on the edges now, along the rolled cuff, the lapel. The housekeeper asks him if he wants her to take care of it. He shakes his head and she doesn’t ask again. Maybe she saw the tears in his eyes.

She’s starting to fade, to slip away from him. It’s almost like she’s from another world, his so called life before all hell broke loose. He sees her in the hallway, arm around Duncan, smiling up at him, making some funny joke, and he wishes he could be there. He wishes he could laugh and pull her closer, feel one more time how her body fits next to his.

Sometimes he catches her staring at him and sees the pity in her eyes. Her gaze penetrates through his sneer, through the nasty comments he mutters behind her in English class. It breaks through the scar tissue that Logan uses to protect himself. It sees it all. Aaron. Lynn. Trina bolting to Europe. The shame that rushes the moment after his mind shatters and his muscles clench as Kendall gasps above him, the sweat on her face dripping onto the bare skin of his stomach.

He hates himself the most when he sees his image reflected in her eyes.


End file.
